When Home is No Longer Home

I thought leaving home was the hardest thing I had ever done.

Turns out, going back home several months later only to realize that place is no longer home was even harder.

Ever since my first pangs of homesickness after I left, I couldn’t wait to take a solo trip east for Thanksgiving and revel in the comfort of home. I bought my tickets back in August and had been counting the days. I was pretty apprehensive to settle into my new life here in San Francisco so I never quite let go of the past. I liked to imagine home would be exactly as I left it.

I got off the plane in the highest of spirits, romanticizing the weekend to come. My mom and her fiancé had moved to Florida for work a few years ago, and they were scheduled to land just an hour after me and we’d all ride back to what used to be home, together.

But the thing is, there wasn’t really a home to go back to. The place I truly considered home was my college town 30 miles east of my hometown and my mom’s home had been sold years ago.

Each minute that ticked by in that hour of waiting in the airport chipped away at my unrealistic high hopes for the weekend. I knew I wouldn’t be snuggling up by the fireplace while my mom baked a pie; she would be just as much of a visitor as I was. And the thought of staying in a hotel with her in my own hometown made me so sick that I ended up sleeping in my childhood best friend’s brother’s old bedroom instead.

The moments that my mind wasn’t occupied by bouncing from relative to relative, nostalgia consumed me. I cut out some time to visit my college town, because that’s that last place I truly felt at home. But that is where the most had changed. The cozy community that surrounded me just six months ago no longer existed. I walked into the coffee shop that had been the hub of my friend group and I didn’t recognize a soul. My mind flickered back to the countless times I found myself there when I didn’t know where else to go and the countless times I was comforted by a friendly face. Now it felt foreign, unfamiliar. I was hit with the uncomfortable realization that life has been going on just fine without me.

I had spent the previous several months believing that this place was my safe haven, unable to let it go. But as the weekend proceeded, I became more and more aware that this place was no longer my home, but neither was California yet. I was in limbo.

Luckily, I met one of my best college friends for a drink and I soon realized that I was not alone. We reminisced on the family of friends we had made in previous years and how our college town eventually became home to us and how it was really only a matter of time before the feeling of home would shift to our new residences.

And the truth is, if you, too, are one of the brave souls who fled home, you’ll likely displace yourself again and consider where you are now somewhat of a safe haven. So we might as well settle in and make the best of it. For soon enough, we will be home.

[Photo by Julie Bloom.]

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The End of An Era: Saying Goodbye to Windrose

Hi friends,

Announcement (sounds so formal, doesn’t it?):

It's the end of an era.

I’ve decided that, after nearly 8 years of telling stories of navigating life, this season of Windrose is drawing to a close.

Even Here: Words for When You're Wandering

When I was 22 years old, I visited the desert for the first time.

A metaphorical desert, if we’re getting technical.

I was fresh out of college, starry-eyed and eager to begin my post-grad life. I had big ‘ole me-centered dreams: a shiny, brag-worthy PR job in the music industry! An apartment with an exposed brick wall that (somehow) would fit an upright piano! A committed relationship with a kind, goofy man!

I got exactly none of those things.

To summarize an entire year’s worth of emotion: I was devastated.

What is Home?

Late last night, I flew back into town after a week away, the city lights covering the Valley like a blanket of incandescent flowers. I’ve flown into Phoenix at least a dozen times at this point. Usually, I can identify a handful of landmarks, like my antenna-scarred South Mountain or the twinkling lights of the bridges spanning Tempe Town Lake.

Flying into Nashville, however, was always different.

I Don't Live Here Anymore

I recently returned to Nashville for the first time since moving to Phoenix five months ago.

Before my reunion, I often said that the word “home” could apply to both Nashville and Phoenix. Nashville is my home. Phoenix is my home. I could find that home-sweet-home feeling in both cities.

During my 8 days back, I frequented my old haunts. The brickwalled coffee shop still serves the meanest mocha in town. The hillside winery still proves to be a worthwhile spot to sip away a sunny Sunday afternoon. The hip burger joint still offers a lovely evening to dine with friends, new and old. The lime-green Mexican restaurant on the corner of Whitebridge still feels like a queso-soaked refuge.

There were many “stills,” but there were changes, too.

Why did you move?

A cardstock print sits propped against the lamp on my desk: a taupe watercolor swipe outlining a peakside Saguaro, the sun a tiny ring above. Beneath this minimalist illustration are these words in typeface: “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”

I happened upon this notecard-sized print on the way out of a shop last weekend, after already having completed another purchase. It was the last print of its kind in the pile. I had to have it. I returned to the cashier: “This one, too.”

You see, this verse has been a thread weaving through my story, simple words spoken by a prophet long dead, a passage of comfort I’ve returned to again and again since my pilgrimage to the desert four years ago, when I inked a cactus on my wrist.

The Good Old Days

Last week was National Margarita Day.

I did not, however, celebrate the holiday. Truthfully, I’ve yet to find THE Mexican place here in Phoenix. You know the one: gaudy decorations, cheap food, even cheaper margaritas.

But there’s a Mexican restaurant at the corner of Charlotte and Whitebridge in Nashville, TN.

You may have heard of it.

Witching Hour (or, Fighting Off Demons at 3 am with a Box Cutter)

Between the hours of 3 - 4 am, I find myself awakened by nothing in particular. The room is silent. There is no sound outside. No loud car horns. No dogs barking.

I’m upset.

I wish it was something other than just me. Then I could stop it. Nothing is to blame. It feels like moments have passed since I closed my eyes. The moments of a long dreamless sleep last about 4 hours.

10 Life Lessons This Cross-Country Move is Attempting to Teach Me

There are a few lessons life has attempted to teach me since my move — all things that I haven’t yet spiced up into a full essay, but deserve to be memorialized by my metaphorical pen nonetheless.

So I present a collection of lessons I’ve learned — and am still learning — in the last 3 months.

What Will Your Life Look Like?

Tomorrow marks 3 months.

Three months here, sharing a zip code with Saguaros.

“So how is Phoenix?” a friend asked me over the phone as I sat on my balcony beneath glowing string lights, a pour of raspberry wine in my hand. The sun was setting, painting the eastern mountains with rosy swipes of redemption.

How has Phoenix been these last three months?

What is it Trying to Tell You, if Only You’d Listen?

I went on a date recently. Two glasses of Riesling, pleasant conversation, and a perfectly amicable guy — it was an altogether fine evening.

However, I wasn’t interested in a second date.

Not because of any run-for-the-hills red flags. Not because I didn’t think he was cute. Not because we didn’t get along. I simply — wasn’t interested.

There’s no better way to explain it. No fear-based avoidance of the potential for a healthy relationship. No disdain for commitment that needs a heavy round of therapy to work through. Nothing deeper than the inner sense that a second date just wasn’t necessary.

But, I said yes to getting dinner again with him.

The Other Side of Yes

I’m a No Girl.

In many ways, this is a good thing. I’m able to confidently decline invitations that disinterest me.

“Want to go whitewater rafting?” No thank you, I’m comfy right here on the bank.

“Want to do a shot?” No thank you, I’ll take my liquor with lime juice and Triple Sec, plz.

“Want to try this carrot cake?” No thank you, Harry, I can’t eat gluten.

“Want to go to Broadway?” No thank you, I’d prefer to go to bed.

In many ways, however, being a No Girl originates less from personal boundaries and more from fear. Fear and I happen to be pretty tight; we talk on the daily. Fear has been the primary consultant for many of my life decisions, in fact.

A Song for Growth

A year ago, a friend of mine got a job at a well known tech company. He had been slogging through the interviews, and he finally got an offer. Obviously he deserved it. He was a hard worker, and his attitude for success and life was admirable to say the least. I knew he was beyond qualified.

But at the time, I was on a career path I couldn’t see myself being happy in. I had made the mistake of staying in the industry mainly for the money. Every month in the industry was a reminder of how much I did not want to stay. It created a nasty cycle of overthinking and career angst. Feelings of inadequacy and existentialism rooted themselves deep inside me. I couldn’t focus on anything and was utterly disconnected from the work I was doing.

I admit I wasn’t happy for him.

Life, RelationshipsHannah ReedDecember 1, 2016Featured1 Comment

When Home is No Longer Home

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